


We’re All Mad Here

by JaenyraBlackfyre



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And suicidal ideation, Dany resurrection fic, Dark Dany, Dark Jon, Dark-ish Rhaenys, F/F, F/M, I promise itll make sense, Implied past rape and torture, Incest, Kinda, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Canon Fix It, Rhaenys is Missandei, Rhaenys lives, Tags will be updated as the story progresses, This has graphic depictions of decay and corpses, This is edging closer to high fantasy, all three targs are super fucked in the head whoops sorry not sorry, and ask to make sure it wont be in the story, and mental illness, arranged incestuous marriages, but if you have any squicks feel free to comment, contains graphic depictions of corpses, i didnt proofread this again before submitting WE DIE LIKE MEN, implied nonbinary characters, not in a bad way tho theyre all just really sad, this is super dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:42:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21781651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaenyraBlackfyre/pseuds/JaenyraBlackfyre
Summary: The shock on the two Westerosi’s faces would have been much more hilarious if the whole situation weren’t so fundamentally horrific.Rhaenys dies in King’s Landing, but is unable to stay dead. She lives and lives and lives, and when Daenerys dies she lives yet again. She’d have thrown herself into the sea or off the top of the Red Temple if not for the pale hand that shot out of the flames.OR: in which mad queens are happy together and westeros hurts itself in confusion.
Relationships: Daenerys Targaryen/Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of Elia), Jon Snow/Daenerys Targeryen/Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of Elia), Missandei/Daenerys Targaryen, Missandei/Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 11
Kudos: 21





	1. We Must Imagine Sysiphus Happy

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So I already said this in the tags but I’m saying this again: do NOT read this if you think you might be triggered by  
> -mental illness  
> -depictions of rotting corpses  
> -suicidal ideation
> 
> Dany will show up in this, but this first chapter was just me dipping my toes in to see how I like this concept. I don’t know when I’ll be able to update this. I’m having a really hard time right now and the reason I chose to write this rather than one of my other stories is to process my own feelings about my grief over the loss of a friend, as well as my mental illness and desire to die. SO yeah not in a good spot so I may not be able to update frequently but I’ll try my best. 
> 
> Also just a heads up, be prepared for MASSIVE tonal shifts. This won’t come up in the story as an actual official diagnosis since Westeros doesn’t have mental healthcare, but I’m writing Rhaenys as if she has PTSD and schizoaffective disorder - Bipolar subtype, which are my own diagnoses. Daenerys is her Favorite Person and she idealizes her, so when she comes back the whole damn tone is gonna shift HARD towards mania. She got it from Rhaegar, who has the same conditions.

When she wakes up, she isn’t sure what it was that killed her this time. It always takes a while for her to remember what it was that did it, what she was doing when it happened. Why it happened in the first place. 

She doesn’t always wake up in the same place that she died. She’s pretty sure she doesn’t even always wake up in the same body—there was a scratch that she’d gotten once, on her left hand when she got a bit too vigorous in her play with Balerion. It’s not there anymore. It hasn’t been there for years, and she’d be questioning if it was ever truly there in the first place if it weren’t for the phantom itch beneath her skin. 

Its not always a continuous living experience, either. The first time she died (this she remembers clearly, she always remembers this clearly, the way the men looked at her, the way her mother screamed, the way they split her in two both mentally and physically, the way they would have come for her next as well age be damned if she hadn’t taken out that little dagger and slit her own throat. She saw what her grandfather did to her grandmother, and she would die before she let that be her fate as well) she woke up weeks later, buried in the crypts that she knew her mother never wanted to be shoved in. She remembers all too well the feeling of worms, of rot, of death decay sickness infestation bones aching blood coagulated skin peeling muscles twitching, and once her vocal cords were well enough screamingscreamingscreaming as the gods purged the death from her body. 

She is not Jon Snow. She is not Beric Dondarrion, who she never really talked to but heard the rumors of his resurrection (after all she’s seen she’d be an idiot to not believe them). She does not get the benefit of blessed unconciousness as the gods restore her to life. The second she dies she feels it all, and it is only this memory loss after it all that provides any semblance of sweet relief. But not for that first time. For this first death she has been cursed with perfect recollection. It haunts her in her dreams, it haunts her in still moments, it haunts her while sitting council, while taking meals with her Queen, while flying with Rhaegal, while fucking Grey Worm, while incapacitated with as much milk of the poppy she can ingest without actually dying again. In silent moments she can still hear the screams, loud piercing shrill shrieking endless endless endless

She’s not sure if it belongs to the souls of the damned, her mother, or herself. She’s not sure if the distinction matters anymore. 

She doesn’t remember how many times its been at this point. How ironically and universally unlucky she has been, to die in every land she has lived in. Killed by her own hand in Kings Landing. Killed by members of the faith who thought her a vengeful ghost. Killed by gold cloaks in her escape. Killed by the pirates who found her stealing food while wandering the harbor. Killed by the butterflies in Naath, where she found refuge. Killed by the pirates again, when they slaughtered her found family. Killed by the slavers of Astapor to test her witchcraft. Killed by the slavers again when they found her to be useless at doing anything other than raising herself from the grave. Killed in the fighting pits over and over and over and over and over, until she learned enough languages from her fellow slaves (murderers, they killed her and that she will neither forget nor forgive even if her life had been restored) to be of use to Kraznys. Killed in the crypts of Winterfell (and how sweet was the look on poor spoiled Sansa’s frozen face when she snatched the dagger from her and stabbed the corpse of her father in the eye, saving both her and that idiot Tyrion yet falling to her own death yet again anyway because the wight of that Northern whore her father ran away with snuck up on her just to fuck her life over yet again. She rose almost immediately then, and the shock on the two Westerosi’s faces would have been much more hilarious if the whole situation weren’t so fundamentally horrific yet all she could do was sit there between the two and laugh and laugh and laugh as the wights raged on, mothers crying and children dying men screaming up above Viserion, poor sweet cream Viserion a raging inferno and forced to fight her brother and sister). 

Oh. She remembers now. Killed again in Kings Landing, by Gregor Clegane (a great big hulking beast of a man, just as monstrous as she has always felt) who raped and murdered her mother and brutalized the uncle she never got to meet, at the orders of yet another Lannister. She’s still not particularly sure how they managed to shoot Rhaegal out of the sky but she has a suspicion that she died there, too, the bond between rider and dragon so strong for her (a creature of Fire and Blood just as much as wild, energetic Rhaegal was) that when Rhaegal’s heart ceased to beat that just for a moment hers probably did too. No one, save Daenerys, knew of their connection. She has always been higher than Dany in the line of succession and unlike Jon Snow, this idiot brother of hers, she knows the danger that a secret like this poses. 

(She’s not even sure who she is anymore sometimes. Is she still Rhaenys, the dragon’s daughter if no one save her Queen knows to call her by that name? Is she Missandei still if bringing the pirates to the small beautiful island is what got her new family killed in the first place?)

She remembers the impact of the blade against her neck, her head and body tumbling to the floor in two pieces. Its not something they prepare you for, being beheaded. Death is not immediate, and the impact of her fragile skull against the ground hurt much worse than the initial cut. She lived for minutes after, had just enough time to see the horrified look on her Queen’s face as Cersei’s forces generously allowed her to collect the body. After she died, she remembers Daenerys, sobbing and pleading, begging her to just come back to her and don’t leave me alone in this world please no not you too please no. She remembers how she slaved away that night, cleaning her body, braiding her hair, stitching her head back onto her neck as if that would somehow make the resurrection quicker. Her eyes open and seeing but not blinking, not moving, she remembers the weeks that Dany spent isolated in her chambers at Dragonstone, how weak and frail and unkempt she was towards the end from lack of food and sleep and water. Daenerys must have prayed to every single god she could and yet still her body grew stiff and bloated, her skin once so golden and lively like the sun her mothers people embodied now blackened and putrefied, the sickeningly sweet stench of rot filled Dany’s chamber just days in and still she would not leave her, her soft skin pressed against the maggot infested corpse of the last person in the world who truly belived in her, not just Daenerys Stormborn the Queen, but also Dany the girl who dreamed of dragons, of family, of happiness, of childhood, of the house with the red door and the lemon tree. 

She died that day, and Daenerys died with her. 

She remembers Daenerys sentencing Varys to death, she remembers him burning on her funeral pyre. Only death can pay for life, Mirri Maz Duur had told Daenerys all those years ago, and maybe in other cases that would have applied but Rhaenys’s life lays in the balance of far older magics than those of the Great Shepherd. She remembers hoping (fearing) wishing (dreading) yearning (crying) longing (fleeing) for the warm embrace of the true death she stupidly (selfishly) thought Drogon’s flames could provide. How terrible she was, to wish for a permanent end, to wish for the torment to finally cease, to wish for an out, to wish for 

To wish for her Queen, her love, her soulmate, her one and only, the moon to her sun, to be alone. To leave her here in this land of poisoned waters and lions and wolves and griffins and ravens and icy cold death. 

And poor sweet Grey Worm, her favorite distraction from the creeping loneliness of her mind. She has never cared for the company of men—her whole life they have brought her nothing but pain and suffering. How fitting it is for her to become so affectionate for the first man she meets without a cock. Her love for him is not the wildfire she has for Daenerys, the obsessive need to protect and possess. Rhaenys loves Daenerys and Missandei loved Grey Worm, but Missandei died upon those gates just like her brothers died in Mereen and that terrible dreadful North. 

She remembers how the flames died down, how Daenerys (so broken, so spent, so desperate) stepped into the embers, how she fell to pieces upon seeing her body—unburnt, unbruised, but still unresponsive. She remembers how Jon Snow just stared at her, watching his queenauntloveralmostbetrothed lose herself with that stupid pained vacant expression he always seemed to wear. She hates herself for ever convincing Daenerys that he would be a good match and consort. She hates herself for the blood she shares with him, but cannot bring herself to hate their father for bringing the man into the world. She doesn’t feel anything towards her father anymore. She can barely remember his face, his voice, his songs and stories. These she has chosen to forget, just like he forgot her and Aegon. The first Aegon, the only one that matters. 

She remembers Dany dragging her body back into her chambers (the rot had left her, the fire cleansing her, and though her flesh was hot to the touch her heart lie still, her eyes still open, seeing, unblinking). She remembers her pleading with Jon Snow, remembers how hard she tried to reach him, make him see her, and maybe for a brief moment he did and yet he pushed her away all the same. Jon Snow, her bastard of a brother, raised so differently, in a life not good enough for a highborn but still lavish compared to how she suffered, and still so hollow inside just like her. She wonders, when the gods chose to bring him back from The Beyond, did they scoop away his essence, his manhood, his agency too? 

Let it be fear, Dany had said (her voice barely above a whisper, the ghost of a whimper on her lips). Jon in his infinite inability to simply observe, misses the glint of tears in her eyes. The hesitant way she bites her lower lip, her brows furrowed. The incessant twiddling of her hands behind her back. She is able to forgive him for not being able to smell the scent of her sweat, feel the pounding of Dany’s heart in her chest, hear the twisting churning roiling turning of her terror-filled gut. Their bond has always been a special one, long before they became as close as sisters. Before they had even set foot on the same land. Before they even knew of each other. For Rhaenys, even before Dany was more than the seed stored in her mad father’s balls. 

She would die for her, and she has died for her. She would live for her, but for some reason her limbs are filled with lead, her mouth stuffed with cotton, her heart filled with stagnant blood and she just. Can’t. Move. 

She sends a prayer to every god that she knows to just let her please please pleasepleaseplease let me help her please p le a se please p l e a s e

Daenerys destroys Kings Landing, and its only a surprise to those fools so unobservant to her suffering, to the state of her armies, to the bubbling conflict between her and Cersei, who has taken so much so so so much from her in this horrifically brief time that they have spent in Westeros. You are a dragon. Be a dragon, Lady Olenna had said. 

The reality of it is this: the people of Westeros had suffered long under the reigns of five different monarchs in the past twenty years. Perhaps, given time and support from allies and advisors Daenerys could have won them over. Perhaps, given understanding and sympathy and help rather than scheming and plotting and assumptions of madness from people too stupid to recognize magic and prophecies and dreams when they see them, Daenerys could have changed the country without so much death and destruction. Perhaps with time the demolition and remodelling of Kings Landing, a city so filled with corruption that both she and Dany both knew needed to be destroyed to build a new future, could have been accomplished without killing everyone in the process. 

Dany was not given time, support, understanding, sympathy, or anything else. She was given dragons, and she was a monster when she used them and a monster if she didn’t. She gave her armies, her people, her weapons, her horses, her food, her dragons (her children), her life. She gave and gave and gave and stretched herself so thin only to be treated as selfish and petulant and impatient when she thought for herself for once, when she tried to pursue her own goals. They loved her when she promised Fire and Blood, and they killed her when she delivered. 

Rhaenys learns of the destruction through the whispers of spirits flittering through the halls (word travels fastest among the dead), but when Daenerys enters the throne room it is as if the magic of their bond is eclipsed with the magic of old Valyria, woven so deeply into the swords of the Iron Throne as well as Dragonstone, where her useless body still lay guarded by Unsullied in the bed of Daenerys’s chambers. In the throne room, Rhaenys can see through Dany’s eyes, can feel her wonder as she (they) gazes upon the metal monstrosity she (they) has long desired to reclaim for their family. She cannot move, her heart does not beat and yet it soars to feel the elation, the wonder, the joy. Dany has suffered too long and even if she has to be trapped in this shell for the rest of her undeath, she would suffer it all just to know she was happy. They turn as one towards Jon who has just entered, Rhaenys warns her of the dagger she knows he carries but she ignores her or perhaps simply cannot hear her as Rhaenys can in turn. They look to Jon as one, speak to Jon as one, beg Jon as one, love Jon as one, kiss Jon as one. And he, alone, pulls the dagger out and betrays them both. It is just as well she never told him of their shared relation. If this is what his love means, then she wants nothing to do with it. 

The blade pierces Dany’s heart. Dany dies and Rhaenys lives and she screams, gut wrenching sobs and pleas and god please why would you do this she was GOOD she was GOOD why why why why why

Waves pull back from the sands of Dragonstone and return violently, crashing into the castle and ports and villages and with it a shriek so beautiful and deadly rises from the seas. The dragon has awakened, and with her love gone, her eyes and hair once the deep brown of her Martell heritage now the crimson and silver of old Valyria following the purification of Drogon’s flame, she has no reason to hide. She leaves Daenerys’s chambers for the first time of her own accord since her death, taking only the blanket she had sewn for Dany’s unborn child. Her guards try to follow her but she sends them away, ignores the stares of the serving girls as she walks through the halls. She follows the dragon’s call and climbs atop Rhaegal, her sweet sweet beautiful girl who is now healed, and follows Drogon as he passes overhead. Viserion is moments behind her, and she would stop to question where she came from if she cared about it at all. 

She would contemplate returning to Westeros for vengeance if she cared about it at all. 

She would do something, anything, everything, if she cared about it at all. All she has is this empty numb blackness, gaping and growing and pervading everything she thought this would be better by now but no why can’t her mind be normal

She doesn’t care. She can’t care, because caring means thinking and thinking means feeling and to allow herself to feel is to allow herself time to breathe and if she breathes she will scream and cry and she just might never stop. 

All there is is the hollow. All there has ever been is the hollow. Daen—do not speak that name. She filled the void. Daener (nononono stop I cant think about her) made her feel something, She was good and kind and cared and Rhaenys was the worst part of her just as She was the best part of Rhaenys. She was all there was, she was all that mattered and they took her they took her they took her they took her why did they do that 

No, no, no, no, no n o no no no. NO. She doesn’t care she doesn’t care she doesn’t have feelings

She wonders if this is what madness feels like.


	2. My Ghosts are Gaining on Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn’t give a fuck about the city. Once he would have, when all he was was Jon Snow. He wasn’t Jon anymore, he wasn’t even Aegon anymore, and if She had commanded him to put all of Winterfell to the sword he would have gladly done so if only to have a purpose to fill this gaping hole inside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m changing Rhaenys’s eye color, in the first chapter I said the fire turned them purple but now it’s turned them red. This isn’t super important to plot but its a symbol that does drive home one of the central themes of the story.

He’s not sure how long he’s spent in that cell. 

He lost count after a week, the light provided by the tiny window just enough to inform him of the passage of time. The sun rose and fell, days became weeks and weeks became months and maybe even years, his only company being the three rats living in the corner, too afraid to come near him even to nibble on the uneaten scraps of moldy food Jon had thrown them. Jon doesn’t know exactly how much time passes between meals, but he suspects Grey Worm only feeds him once per week, just enough to keep him alive. Truth be told he doesn’t think he _needs_ the food, he has gone hungry before and he knows what starvation does to a man’s body. He feels the gnawing pain in his gut but that is all. His muscles have not wasted, he has not lost the slight softness around his midsection, his skin and nails still healthy, if not clean. He is, perhaps, even more hale than he was in his youth, before the years of war and death and shit took their toll. 

It has been this way since he killed Her, since an enraged Drogon roared and doused both he and Her corpse in dragonfire. 

He doesn’t know why he did it. He tells himself he had to, that it was the right thing, that D— _She_ had torched hundreds of thousands of innocents, that She would have come for Sansa and Arya next. He thinks that had all of this happened before his brothers murdered him he would have believed it all. 

He is not that Jon anymore. He is barely even a man anymore. 

He followed Her into that throne room, he saw how the soft light bathed Her in an almost holy radiance, an angel (a goddess) of death so beautiful and so destructive, he saw the wonder and awe on Her face as She gazed upon the work of their ancestors, he heard the love in Her voice as She begged him to be with Her. As he gazed into Her eyes he swore he saw his own face, felt the rough callouses of his own hands, felt the warmth of his own breath. He could feel Her love for him (and he could swear he felt the apprehension and disdain of another soul somewhere), and when he put the knife in Her heart he bled too. He didn’t _want_ to do it, he wasn’t even going to. His feet moved of their own accord, his mouth opened and repeated the words Tyrion had wanted him to say, his hand moved and betrayed him (betrayed Her) and murdered Her, his last reason to exist. 

He didn’t give a fuck about the city. Once he would have, when all he was was Jon Snow. He wasn’t Jon anymore, he wasn’t even Aegon anymore, and if She had commanded him to put all of Winterfell to the sword he would have gladly done so if only to have a purpose to fill this gaping hole inside him. 

Drogon set him ablaze and though his body did not burn he felt the searing pain of the flames, his clothes melting off him leaving him naked as his nameday, his hair scorched white as snow. The dragon flew off with his Mother’s corpse, leaving him naked, shivering, crying, soaked in blood and ash. That was how the Unsullied found him. 

It was Grey Worm who killed him first, a spear straight through his throat. He was dead for at most a minute, before the wound sealed right back up. They tried whatever they could—he had been hanged, his throat slit, his heart stabbed, his tongue ripped out, his head caved in, held under water until he drowned. At one point he had even been beheaded, and both the Unsullied and Dothraki looked on in horror as his headless body crawled towards his head and _put it back on._

It hurt, of course. Dying always hurt. But inside all he felt was the gaping chasm. Sometimes his life was not immediately restored, but he could barely muster the will to feel horrified at the sensation of worms crawling in his decaying corpse. 

It wasn’t like this when he died before. Then, he simply ceased to be, his body uninhabited and his soul mindless in the comforting nothingness of The Beyond. This was something else, something primordial, something almost malevolent in its all encompassing goodness, too inhuman to recognize that this life was not a blessing but a _curse_. He felt Its presence with the beating of dragon wings, a shriek he had not heard since the Great War, when the Night King shot Viserion out of the sky and he with her, when he and Ghost had been forced to battle the sweet dragon who once saw him present his Queen with flowers then whined and cried until Jon gave in and placed a crown of winter roses around her horns. 

He sees her from his small window, he feels her anger at him. She knows he has betrayed her Mother, and though she is angry she does not hate him, does not try to kill him, for dragons are far more loyal than any man could ever be. She simply glares at him, her eyes saying _I know what you have done_ , and leaves him to rot in this lonely prison. 

Tyrion comes to tell him of his sentence, and it takes every ounce of self control for him to not kill the little imp. He’s not sure why he doesn’t, it would be justice for Her and all that She has lost, and he has nothing to lose. But he cannot do it. He tells himself its because he doesn’t want to, because he still considers him a friend, because he was right to betray Her. He knows that this is a lie, he can feel the burning _hatred_ , the first thing he has felt in what seems like years. How he longs to wrap his hands around that stunted little neck and _squeeze_ , but his limbs are cold as ice, heavy as rocks, and he just can’t move. 

He is being sent back to the Night’s Watch. Its rather hilarious. They _wanted_ him to kill her, wanted her out of Westeros, wanted her armies and her help but not her leadership. They took whatever they needed from the last Targaryens, and when they needed them no longer they cast them aside like old hounds. Even Jaime fucking Lannister got pardoned after killing the Mad King. 

He stumbles along to the port of King’s Landing as they ready the ship to send him away. He plays nice with Arya, Bran, and Sansa, the whore who so readily turned against his Queen for the crime of _helping them defeat the dead_ , but inside all he feels is nothing save for the ghost of his anger. 

He is silent over the long journey at sea. He is silent upon arrival at White Harbor, is silent when they transition to horseback, is silent when they arrive at Castle Black. He only breaks when he reunites with Tormund and Ghost, his last companions, but as their party ventures beyond the wall he is silent once more. The Freefolk return to their abandoned dwellings and though Tormund invites him to stay, Jon simply cannot bear to be surrounded by them, all life and vitality, families and friends and neighbors smiling joyously while he is hollow and broken and alone. He and Ghost continue their travels, setting off toward the Tree he has always been meant to return to. 

The wight at Castle Black bit him and marked his body. The Walker had touched him at Hardhome and marked his mind. The Night King killed Viserion and marked his soul. He is a dragon, the blood of Old Valyria, but he has been claimed by the North. He will claim himself back. 

He hesitates before stepping into the clearing, the old magics of The Children and Others nearly preventing his entrance. He is stronger than them and they know it, their small nymph spirits pleading with him to _please think about this, you are of the North, you are one of us, we are a part of you_. He has killed kin before, he will gladly do it again, but first he must _learn_. He touches the exposed root, his mind sliding into the ancient knowledge as easily as entering Ghost or Viserion. The cold spreads out from the wound in his heart, his fingertips losing feeling, his head pounding, and then he _sees_

His ~~father~~ uncle smiling at him, Catelyn sneering at him, a young Bran and Arya playing with him while Sansa looks on, too good to play with her bastard brother but young enough to feel jealousy, Robb being better than him simply for existing, and beyond them he sees a long line of the Starks of old. He sees Ghost, and in her he sees a young woman crowned in winter roses. He sees Viserion, and in her he sees a wild young woman with a sword and a regal and poised older woman, both near perfect copies of his Queen. He sees Rhaegal, and in her he sees another woman with the blood of Valyria next to a small Dornish woman who looks just like his Queen’s Naathi friend. He sees Drogon, and in him he sees a Targaryen prince, rasping for breath, his chest caved in, his armour leaking blood and rubies, as well as a tall strong warrior king who Jon would be a fool to not recognize as Aegon the Conqueror. The image changes and he sees a mirror, sees himself, his hair pale as milk, his eyes blue as ice, and in himself he sees once more the wild young woman with the sword he now recognizes as Dark Sister. 

_Visenya,_ he breathes then she too sneers at him, reaches through the mirror to strike him for killing their kin. He sees his Queen and he wants to cry, how peaceful and beautiful she looks lying dead in a bed of winter roses. He blinks and sees King Aegon, shifting back to Her when he blinks again. He sees Missandei behind Ghost, standing between Drogon and Rhaegal and when he blinks and sees her surrounded by his mother, King Aegon, his father, the older woman (his grandmother, he figures) and the Dornish woman who must be Elia Martell. She is his sister, Rhaenys in both name and spirit, he realizes, and now it all makes sense, how protective his Queen had been of her, how her body once rotten refused to burn, instead returning from the fire healthy and whole, her hair turned white by the flames just like his own. She glares at him, _you killed her_ he hears though she speaks no words, and he feels a wave of her hatred just before the image changes once again. 

He sees an old withered man in the Tree surrounded by ravens and children with twisted, gnarled skin. He sees Bran, young and broken but still himself, then he sees him impaled in the tree, his spirit in agony, crying screaming _help me, Jon_. He hears the old man laughing, a sound full of malice and Jon knows that this man is the reason all this has happened. He feels the roots climbing up his legs and knows this is the Three Eyed Raven trying to control him, knows that this is what happened in the throne room, knows that this is why he could not kill that traitorous Lannister. 

He rips himself from the roots and sees just the Tree again, and Ghost (his mother) watches impassively as Jon pulls out Longclaw and begins to hack it to pieces. He hears the call of Viserion and he does not move as she burns the Tree to icy ashes with her cold blue flames. He looks into her eyes and sees the love of his grandmother, the ferocity of Visenya, and he climbs onto her back (it is odd, he is nude now and with this position he is forced to press his cock against the scales of a beast that shares a soul with his foremothers, though she does not seem to notice or care). She grabs Ghost in her massive feet and flies off, south towards Winterfell. 

He lands in front of the castle and hops off, sword in hand as he stalks towards the gates like a nude visage of death. 

“Where is my sister?” His voice is raspy from disuse, and he chokes on the word ‘sister.’  
Even had they been siblings in truth he would disown that traitorous snake. 

The guards, terrified, scramble to find their northern ‘queen.’ He waits in silence, smirking at the horrified stares and whispers of the smallfolk. Some of the passing girls giggle, sneaking glances at his exposed manhood. He does not care. Let them see what a true king looks like. 

“Jon!” 

In the courtyard, Sansa looks shocked to see him. She rushes toward him, elated, uncaring of his nudity, and hugs him. She notices his stiffness and withdraws, finally taking notice of his horribly scarred body. 

“What has happened to you?” Her voice trembles as she asks this. She already knows the answer. 

“You did,” is his only reply, before he shoves Longclaw into her heart. 

Her blood drips onto the snowy ground and beyond them the castle erupts into a fit of chaos. Her expression is just as betrayed as Her’s was, but this time he feels a deep satisfaction that is only momentary before the emptiness creeps up on him again. Longclaw falls from his grip, clattering to the ground covered in his sister-cousin’s blood, and Sansa falls to her knees yet she does not die. He watches, curious, impassive, as the hole in her chest is covered in a thin layer of ice. 

_Dracarys,_ he whispers, and Viserion bathes them both in icy flame yet Sansa remains unharmed, still staring at him with that pained expression, too stunned to speak, her clothes a pile of cold ashes, icicles dangling from her hair that is now streaked with brown, her eyes the same startling shade of blue as his. As the Walkers’. 

Very well then. If he cannot take her life then he will take everything else. 

He climbs onto Viserion again, Ghost still tucked in her burning cold embrace, and sets the castle on fire. Men, women, children scream and try to flee, Sansa watches him accusing and horrified and betrayed, and the castle he grew up in, that he loved, that he always wished to rule, burns to the ground in less than an hour, and all the while he feels nothing, nothing

Nothing. 

He flies south to the remnants of King’s Landing and the Red Keep, and Bran and his council are already atop the city’s rebuilt gates, scorpions trained on him. They won’t be of any use, Bran knows this already. No. Not Bran, but the thing inside of his body. 

“Why?” Is all he says. The Raven merely smiles. 

Tyrion looks at the boy king with disgust and Jon knows that his spells have all been lifted, that those who would support him know of his treachery, know that the Night King was his, that he has been sowing seeds to bring himself to the Iron Throne for years. Tyrion, who raised the boy king to the throne, kinslayer, kingslayer, queenslayer, oathbreaker, ever following in his brother’s footsteps, pushes the boy’s chair over the side of the gate. 

_Dracarys_. The chair burns, his clothes burn, but like Sansa, Bran the Broken does not burn. He pushes himself off the ground, eyes blue hair dark as pitch, and for the first time in years he _walks_. Brandon Stark lives again, the Raven slumbers again, yet it doesn’t matter anyway because his Queen is still dead. 

He looks Tyrion in the eye and feels nothing. He is free to kill him now, but he decides against it. Let him live with the consequences of his actions. 

Viserion lifts off again, west this time. He sees Arya’s lone ship trapped in a shelf of ice, they had sailed north west hoping to find land once their food stores began to run low, he learned at the Tree, and now Arya is the last one living. She looks up in shock at the sight of the large white dragon, and only has time to cry out his name before he bathes her in dragonfire. 

She doesn’t burn either. Instead she _runs_ , out toward the sea, and ice spreads through the water where her feet make contact with the waves. 

He had loved her once. Now he feels nothing. 

He continues his flight over the massive expanse of ice and land. It is barren at first, then he starts to see animals and rocks and white trees, then corpses and massive spiders led by tall pale blue eyed figures. He sees cities, bright and beautiful and unlike anything he has ever seen, sprawling over the icy terrain. He sees a castle atop a stony pillar, and on it perches a pale dragon, larger than Drogon, its eyes as blue as Viserion’s. It rears back and breathes flame at him, turning the air to spears of ice hurtling towards him. He flies higher until he is out of reach, and eventually after days, weeks, months the icy landscape is cut off by five massive fortresses. He is tempted to land here, something about these structures awakening the magic within his blood, but he continues. He is being pulled by something, he does not know what but it is a call that neither he nor Ghost nor Viserion can ignore. He flies for weeks more, the pale grass giving way to the bright sprawling lush green of the Dothraki sea, the sands giving way to the gold glint of the Harpies. Finally sees Drogon and Rhaegal in front of a temple even larger than the Sept of Baelor and he knows he has reached Volantis. 

A priestess curtsies to him as Viserion lands, and behind her he sees his sister cradling the corpse of his Queen, tears on her cheeks, her pretty face wracked with sobs. The time passed has allowed her hair to grow and it tumbles down her back in unkempt curls, her whole body covered head to toe in ash as she prays and prays for Her to return. 

“She has been at this for nearly a year,” the priestess tells him, “every day she tries and fails to restore Her Grace to life. She hardly eats or sleeps.” 

He approaches the pair. His sister glares at him and he can feel her rage, can see his empty expression through her tear filled eyes. He takes Her body from her, gently places Her between them on the stone floor covered in symbols written in his sister’s blood, then takes Rhaenys’s hands in his. 

_Dracarys,_ they whisper as One, and the dragons bathe the last three Targaryens in flame. 

The ground beneath them begins to shake. Thunder claps, lightning strikes the temple, and steaming salty raindrops fall from the heavens, a cloud of smoke rising from the dragonfire. Between them a pale hand shoots out of the flames as Her Grace, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, screams her way back into the world. 

Azor Ahai has returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sure how clear this is because its kind of a weird concept, but just in case anyone didn’t get it:
> 
> Ghost has the soul of Lyanna  
> Drogon has the soul of Rhaegar, and shares the soul of Aegon the Conquerer with Daenerys.  
> Viserion has the soul of Rhaella, and shares the soul of Visenya with Jon.   
> Rhaegal has the soul of Elia, and shares the soul of Rhaenys (wife of Aegon) with Rhaenys (daughter of Elia). 
> 
> Why is Dany Aegon and not Jon, you ask? Because I wanted her to be. 
> 
> Also Tyrion said “this bitch empty, YEET”
> 
> This chapter was filled with lots of symbols and magic concepts so like if yall wanna ask me anything feel free!! Next chapter is Dany’s, and once we get past that it takes us out of the flashbacks and we’re gonna get a dance of dragons 2.0 bc my queens are PISSED


End file.
